Goodbye

Some things you don't come back from.

The body carries on. Of late

it even travels, basks in light.

But knock and there's no one home.

(How did I love you? With the taste

of iron on my tongue. Try again.

How did I love you? Like a man

destroying what he tries to save.)

The head still does light labor.

But often both the hands fall slack,

and all five senses, in a flock,

go south to weather winter.